I've done everything you ever told me to do:

Followed all of your rules, even the ones that could easily be argued as ridiculous;

Gotten straight A's;

Took the ACT, scored high on it;

Completed all the volunteer work you asked for and more;

Joined clubs, sometimes without having any clue what the club was;

Everything you told me, every last little thing,

And yet, now, you tell me

I can't follow my dream.

It's not practical.

I can't live off of it.

So why, then,

Why on Earth

Would you think it's a good idea

To preach to us,

Preach to us when we're children and don't know any better,

Preach to us when we're vulnerable and impressionable,

That we should dream big and

Dream often, or always, and

Follow those dreams?

You didn't tell us

Only to dream about things that would get us jobs,

The kinds of jobs that can pay the rent

And keep us out of the gutter.

You didn't tell us

Only to dream about doing things

That there's a market for.

You didn't tell us

Only to dream and follow dreams

About useful things,

Like balancing checkbooks and making a budget.

You didn't tell me that I can't do what I want,

That I can't be an author.

You didn't tell me any of this

Until now.